History Repeats
by SpaceMonkey0941
Summary: Slightly dark!Ronon – my second 'fic in Spanky A Week Summer. Ronon's thoughts on Life.


A/N: The wonderously talented fyd818 decided that this summer, a bunch of different authors shall band together in the face of

**A/N: ** The wondrously talented fyd818 decided that this summer, a bunch of different authors shall band together in the face of canonical opposition (all of you Ronon/Keller 'shippers, I am looking _straight_ at you) and take turns writing ONE STORY EVERY WEEK of the Ronon/Teyla persuasion. This is my second contribution to Spanky A Week Summer (SAWS), and if you would like to join in on the fun or see the other 'fics there is a link to the forum in fyd818's profile.

**A/N2:** Starting line courtesy of BiteMeTechie, from the WPBA forum's 100 Starting Lines. Number 002, "History repeats . . ." This is slightly (okay a LOT) darker than my other SAWS 'fic, "Fire", so if you're terribly confused or depressed after reading this one, go read that one (yay self-promotion!) and you will feel better.

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History repeats. We mortals live in a cycle that is seldom broken: birth, life, and death each take their turn on the dance floor, whirl their unsuspecting victim around for a while, then spin them off to the next partner. Once the dancer is completely exhausted and falls lifeless to the ground, the next is brought, innocent and not knowing the trials they are about to go through.

I used to wonder about my personal struggle with Life. _Why me?_ I would ask. I don't know who I was asking, or if I expected them to answer, but a lot of the time it seemed like the entire universe was out to get me. I know a lot of people feel that way but the things I've gone through make other lives pale in comparison. Kidnapped just after my people were destroyed and the woman I loved killed right in front of me, forced to spend all my waking – and many unwaking – minutes alert and fighting for my survival for seven years, that tends to make me think that someone out there just doesn't like me.

I'd covered my feelings with a tough exterior – it was the only way I survived as long as I did. I denied everything that made me vulnerable. I had no friends, so no one could hurt me by hurting anyone else. I had no home, and moved around as much as I needed to prevent becoming attached to a particular place. I stopped feeling anything other than a dull ache of despair, held in check by adrenaline and the will to survive.

And then I found the Lanteans, and that damnable sensation of hope rose in my chest again, after I'd successfully stamped it into submission so it wouldn't distract me from surviving. I opened myself up to attack when I joined them. Even now, years after I have joined their mission, I still lie awake some nights wondering how long it will take them to betray me, abandon me like so many others, or how long it will take for them to be hurt or killed. If that happens I'm sure I would plunge into a depression so deep I might never come out, and after drowning my sorrows in the largest amount of liquor I could find I'd probably take a short jump off of a tall cliff.

I don't want to get close to these people. History repeats, and history tells me that that is _not_ a good idea. In the interest of self-preservation, I shouldn't get close.

I keep telling myself that but it's no good. That's the other part of history that keeps repeating itself. I always tell myself not to get close, not to take any risks, not to open up, and then I go right ahead and fall in love, or make friends with someone new. And then they leave, by voluntary means or not, and I'm left, alone, with a little less soul than I had when they were there.

Growling, I throw another few punches at my defenseless opponent. The punching bag swings away from me reproachfully, then returns to be hit again when its tether runs out. Realizing the similarity between the punching bag and myself, I'm stunned into stillness, brought back to reality by a sharp smack on the forehead as the bag continues its swing unchecked.

I hear a soft laugh behind me and I whirl, knives suddenly in my hands as I prepare for an attack.

_Damn_. She always finds me when I don't want to see her.

I slowly sheathe my weapons as Teyla walks cautiously forward, her hands up in a placating gesture.

"It is only me, Ronon. I will not hurt you," she says, her voice soft.

I almost laugh. How often I have heard that promise, and how naïvely she says it now, completely unaware of the mental turmoil her presence has put me in.

Instead I turn away.

"What do you want, Teyla," I growl, my tone indicating my wish for solitude. But for once she doesn't take the hint, and comes closer. She puts her hands on my shoulders, and I freeze.

"You should rest, Ronon," she says, slowly massaging my neck. If only she knew I'm only this tense because of her.

"'M not tired," I mutter resentfully, pulling away from her touch. She seems surprised and a little disappointed by my roughness, and backs off a little. I walk over to the window, throwing my discarded Bantos rods in a bag and staring out at the breathtaking view.

I hear a slight rustling, then silence, and turn in the hopes that she has left. Not so – instead she's over at the cabinet, withdrawing her own set of rods. She looks at me with a hardness in her eyes I've only seen when Sheppard is being particularly stubborn about something and Teyla's tolerance runs out.

"Well," she says. "I suppose we can remedy that."

Twirling her rods to get the feel of them, she takes up her customary fighter's stance, her raised eyebrow challenging me.

I stand absolutely still for what feels like a long time.

_Do I fight? Do I leave?_

Abruptly coming to a decision, as is my wont, I grab the rods from the bag and in one fluid movement am at her side, attacking with an energy born of utter despair. I don't know if, by staying with the Lanteans – with Teyla – I will be hurt, but at this point I just can't seem to care any more. I fight with every ounce of spirit I have left, and meet equal passion from Teyla. We battle for an age, then we break away just as my resolve melts into nothingness.

"Why do you care?" I yell at her, circling on the mat. "Why do you care what happens to me? _I_ don't even care what happens to me, so why should you? Why should anyone?"

Tears sting my eyes and I brush them away angrily. I'd leave now, but I can't seem to stop circling. I notice that my outburst has given Teyla absolutely no pause; she is still circling on the mat as if I had said nothing. Suddenly she attacks, her rods a blur of motion that I meet with a feeble ferocity and sluggish reflexes.

She drives me up against a wall, knocking my rods from my hands and bringing hers up to my throat in a smooth movement. We stand there, chests heaving from exertion. She takes a deep breath, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Why do I _care_?" she asks, her voice harsh and breaking. "I care because you are my _friend_, Ronon. How could you ask me that, knowing what we have been through together?"

She steps back, shaking her head, and her rods drop from suddenly still hands. My energy gone, I sink to the floor, and she follows, falling on her knees in front of me. I see that she has tears in her eyes too, and a twinge of something other than pain stirs in me.

Somehow I manage to speak.

"I can't . . . I can't get hurt. Not again."

Having made this confession, all the fight leaves my system as suddenly as it appeared. I close my eyes and bring my knees up to rest my head on them, hiding behind my dreadlocks like I did when I was a child, using the age-old defense of "I can't see you, so you can't see me."

And for a minute I think it's even going to work.

Then a cool hand touches my arm, moving to my head. She forces me to look at her. Rather than saying anything she does the one thing that would convince me that Life is worth living.

Her lips are warm against mine, her touch on my face gentle. For a few heart-stopping seconds I don't respond to the kiss, but then my hands move of their own accord to grasp her and pull it closer to me. Our tears mingle and I can taste them as they run down our faces. The kiss is full of the same, unbridled passion that I can feel when we spar, and it warms me to the bone.

She breaks the kiss, but leaves her head close to lean her forehead against mine. Quietly, very quietly, she says, "That is why I care, Ronon. And I promise you that I will never hurt you. _Never_."

The pain in my chest lessens a fraction of a percent. I raise my eyes to hers, searching for any sign of doubt, or treachery. I see only love, and it is somehow just as painful as the despair I feel.

Somehow, she cares. Even when I can't bring myself to care any more, she _cares_.

I realize as I kiss her that, true to form, I've gone and fallen in love again. But maybe – just _maybe_ – this time will be different.

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**A/N: **Yikes. I don't think I've ever written something that . . . _dark_ before. I think I'm going to go read my other SAWS 'fic, "Fire" just to get some Fluffy!Shipping back in my brain -shamelessly promotes own work- Thanks once again to fyd818, and everyone who has written a story for Spanky A Week Summer so far!


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